Painted Blind
by p0ck3tf0x
Summary: Canada was one of the lucky ones. The poisonous gas had left him blind but this stranger was patient and caring, even though he would 'tut' softly when asked his name. One shot.


_Canada was one of the lucky ones. The poisonous gas had left him blind but this stranger was patient and caring, even though he would 'tut' softly when asked his name. One shot._

_Hetalia does not belong to me. Neither do any of the countries mentioned. Get back to me after 'World Domination Phase 3' is complete._

_The image attached was drawn by MapleVogel. She has done quite a few pieces for my stories and I love each and every one of them. I have her permission to use it as a cover illustration. Thank you!_

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"_Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind, therefore is winged cupid painted blind." - William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream_

* * *

**Painted Blind**

With another mistake came another war. With another war came more casualties. The dead were piled high and used as rotting barricades. Smoke filled the air and children choked on their tears. Soldiers spent their cold vigil praying for an end: any end that would take them far from this place. Hell would be a welcome reprieve from this torture; maybe there they could dream. Dream of a future where the sky was not always dark, where screams did not ring in the distance, and where food did not turn to ash in your mouth.

And soon, it was no longer a dream. The war came to an end, papers were signed, and the world returned from chaos. It was business as usual.

Almost.

During one of the many raids in Canadian airspace, poisonous gas was mistakenly dropped on a small town in the north. The community was devastated as the vapours spread quickly through the streets and burnt the lungs and eyes of civilians. It was later discovered that a cache of hidden narcotics mixed with the poisonous gas had caused an unprecedented reaction. Someone or another had been tampering with the bombs before dropping them and had violated several articles of the Geneva Convention in the course of their actions. The government called it an accident; Canadians called it a conspiracy.

But the townspeople called it too late.

Those few and far between who survived the initial attack were left disfigured and unable to breathe without medical assistance. The lucky ones were only left blind.

Canada was one of the lucky ones.

He had been visiting the town as Matthew Williams at the time, looking for the family of a friend and comrade who had died on the front line. He had promised the man that he would bring his rosary beads back to his wife. They had been a gift before he left to fight a hopeless war.

"_Please. She... Said she wanted these... Back in one piece. Won't she be... Surprised?" The soldier cackled, coughing blood on the front of his uniform as he pushed the beads into Canada's shaking hands. Canada whispered a soft prayer over his friend's body while tears coursed down his cheeks. He closed the man's eyes out of respect and laid him to rest on the ground before picking up his gun again and moving out. He had made a promise and on the next rotation, he would be sure to deliver._

Too bad Canada would never get the chance. His friend's wife was not among the survivors.

And Canada was left blind for his trouble.

The other countries were surprised to see the damage inflicted on one of their own. It was not unusual for a nation to be hurt, but not generally through human means. When a nation was sick or dying; it was because the country itself was in turmoil. The other countries could only guess that his blindness was a reflection of the little town, and that as time passed, his eyes would heal. It had happened before that one seemingly small incident shocked the people to their core and affected the person representing the nation. A moment of careless blunder had left an impression on Canadians everywhere. As the event faded from their minds, hopefully Canada's vision would return.

But who knew when, or if it ever would? Germany still woke up coughing violently centuries after the Holocaust, choking on the air of gas chambers long since dismantled but still fresh in the minds of the world.

In the meantime, Canada was blind. He spent the first couple of months after the end of the war addicted to morphine to dull the pain as he scrambled to help his people rebuild. In all honesty, he was probably more of a hindrance than help, but no one had the heart to deny any assistance so earnestly given. Soon, as time marched steadily on, his people were able to stand on spindly legs like newborn fawns and take their first shuddering steps into a new future.

As their citizens began to take charge, the nations themselves were able to retreat and lick their own wounds. War always left gashes and seeping bruises, but peace would turn the cuts into calloused scars.

It was during this time that the man began visiting.

The man never told Canada his name and would 'tut' softly when asked. The man never spoke, instead making light sounds and hums, and never enough to place him. He would shift things around the house to make it easier for Canada to move from room to room. He would guide Canada's hands over objects and write letters on his palm when he could not figure out what it was, spelling it out; _V-I-N-E-G-A-R _or_ B-U-B-B-L-E-B-A-T-H. _When Canada tripped over the rug and fell on his face; the man had staunched his bloody nose and promptly destroyed every rug in the house.

The man was always patient. He held Canada's hand when he cried in frustration. He washed Canada's hair and towelled it dry when he had mixed up the bottles in the bathtub one too many times. When it was time for Canada to kick the habit, the man helped tie him to the bed and watched over him as he thrashed and begged for morphine.

Years passed and Canada learned to live with his disability, but he still waited anxiously for the man to visit. Sometimes he would come everyday, sometimes he would disappear for weeks, but he always came back.

* * *

Canada could hear the rain pattering against the windows in steady rhythm when the man stumbled into his house. He moved carefully down the stairs and stopped in the hallway. He could hear ragged sobbing and smell liquor in the air, but he was sure it was the man.

Canada swept his hand through the air back and forth as he stepped forward, waiting for it to connect with the other man. He was surprised when another hand darted out and grabbed his, tugging him down to the ground. Canada landed awkwardly in a puddle, the man's fingers digging into the flesh of his palm like a lifeline. Canada reached out with his other hand and found the man's face. He traced the edge of the jaw with his fingers as the man continued to sob. He danced over the shell of his ear, wove his hand through the dripping tresses.

Canada stroked the bridge of his nose and cheeks, brushing over his wet eyelashes and kissing each of his closed eyes when they fluttered shut. Canada pressed his fingers against his gasping lips and, after a moment's hesitation, he sealed their lips in a deep kiss.

The man clung desperately to him as the kiss grew more and more intense, sobbing when they broke apart for air before Canada pulled them back together. Clothes were slowly being discarded on the hallway floor when the man tore away from Canada and held him at arms length.

"I can't," he said, his voice devastated. It was the first time the man had ever spoken to him. "I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend."

"What do you mean?" Canada asked, trying desperately to place the voice, as parched and dry as it was.

"It was me; I did it. I was the pilot. I didn't know about the poisonous gas but by god, Matthew, I dropped the bomb. On orders, I dropped it."

Canada stilled and raised his hands slowly to his useless eyes in question.

"Yes," the man choked, apparently at the gesture. "Yes, I did it. Everything. I won't lie to you anymore. I can't."

The man suddenly leaned in to kiss Canada; this kiss was soft and pleading and over too soon. He stood up and forcibly opened the door, slamming it against the wall in the process. Canada could still hear the rain pounding against the side of the house and the wind whistling through the trees.

"I'm so sorry," whispered the man and with that, he was gone. The door was banging open and closed in the wind and water was soaking the floor but Canada could not move to fix it. In that last goodbye, he had placed the voice.

"...Prussia?"

* * *

It took another few years for his eyes to heal completely, but they did as his people forgot, forgave, or moved on. The war was left to history and so his vision began to return slowly.

It was little things at first; shadows so faint that he could not trust them. Then the fuzzy grey outlines. Soon Canada could see in colours and crisp edges.

Canada knocked on the door and waited. When Germany opened the door he asked to see his brother. He had quirked an eyebrow, but nodded and turned back into the house to find Prussia.

Canada tried to be patient as he waited but it was difficult. Prussia had always been so patient with him and Canada had waited this long to see Prussia. He fingered his old friend's rosary in his pocket, the one that had led him there and now here as a sort of cursed good luck charm. He could wait another couple of minutes.

Prussia rounded the corner and stopped dead when he saw who was waiting at the door. He was thinner than Canada remembered and his eyes a shade duller. His hands started shaking and he looked ready to either run or throw up.

Canada made eye contact with the man and stepped forward. For every step he took, Prussia took one step back until he bumped into a wall. Canada let his eyes obviously stray over every inch of Prussia, drinking in every detail. Comprehension dawned on Prussia's face and he reached forward to brush his thumbs over Canada's eyelashes. Canada fluttered his eyes and nodded slightly. Prussia sank slowly to the floor, his hands shaking worse than ever, and Canada followed him down. He grabbed one of the shaking hands and cradled it against his face, never breaking eye contact.

Canada leaned forward and brought their lips together, trying to put every feeling into that one kiss. It was desperate and greedy; it was soft and sweet. It was ten years worth of frustration and tears. Ten years worth of tender care and blossoming love. Ten years of life.

Canada pulled away and brushed his fingers teasingly over his lips, memorizing every detail.

"I forgive you," he whispered before leaning in for another kiss.

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_**Author's Notes:**_

_This is another war in a possible future and the potential consequences. The story is a little dark and a little sweet, like fine chocolate. I like the pace and dreamlike quality of this one. I hope that you also enjoyed it despite how short it is. _

_The quote at the beginning is one of my favourites and achingly appropriate for this story. Also, it is from which the title is derived._

_In case anyone was confused: the Canadian government was told that the bomb was dropped by accident, but we see later that Prussia was ordered to drop it. That does not mean he tampered with it but he still followed orders and dropped the bomb. It was because of this guilt that Prussia began visiting and looking after Canada, as a way to make amends. He did not want Canada to know who he was, so he kept quiet until it was too much and he had to confess. Imagine spending years tenderly caring for someone and falling in love, only, every time you look into their eyes all you can see are your sins and the damage you caused. I think it would get overwhelming. This story was not meant to have any religious undertones, but with the rosary and confession, I guess it could be seen that way?_

_I think the time that the two spent together would be rather cute, despite the circumstances. Canada chattering nervously to fill the silence left by Prussia and Prussia watching Canada flit about the room amusingly; leaping up to move objects before Canada could hurt himself._

_Please leave a review and feel free to offer opinions, advice, or criticism. All are welcome._

_**Additional Note 21/01/13: I have posted a short continuation of this as chapter twenty one of 'Inspired'.**_


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